Vomiting Blades
by quintenttsy
Summary: Sylar fic. One-shot. Not a romance of any kind.


He sits on the wall opposite the apartment, a silent predator lurking in the dark. His mouth is turned up in a crooked, twisted smile, eagerly anticipating the night ahead. This kill is going to be a good one, he just knows it.

Rubbing his hands together, he blows on them to warm them up, still staring across at the apartment. It's freezing, nearly zero degrees Celsius, and were it not for a certain ability of his, he would be feeling the cold a lot more. As it is, he thinks with a smirk, he's _perfectly_ prepared for the cold weather.

He checks his watch impatiently; his quarry was supposed to be here half an hour ago if they stuck to schedule, which they did, meticulously. It almost makes it too easy for him. He relishes a challenge.

But it appears she's deviating from the norm for once. Shame. Sighing, he gets to his feet, rubbing the back of his neck. He'll have to find someone else to-

But then he freezes. Someone's going into the apartment opposite him, and it looks like the someone he's been waiting for. He must've just missed her. Waiting a few seconds, he crosses the street, pausing on the steps. Stealthily, he creeps up behind her, following her inside to her apartment. Holding back a little, he waits until she's let herself into the apartment before knocking sharply on the door. Nothing. He presses the doorbell a few times, in an attempt to convey his impatience.

Almost instantly, he can hear footsteps slapping on the floor, and seconds later the door swings open, a disgruntled woman standing in the doorway.

"Yeah?" she says boredly, flicking a stray strand of blonde hair out of his face.

A muscle twitches in his face. _She_ was blonde. Now he comes to think of it, she looks a lot like _her_. Like the girl he thought he loved.

Like the girl he killed.

"Hello?" The woman – no, girl, she can't be more than nineteen – looks distinctly annoyed as she clicks her fingers in his face. He blinks, bringing himself back to the here and now. "I said, can I help you?"

A slow, twisted smile spreads across his face. "Yes, actually, you can. You have something I want. Something… valuable."

Her forehead creases with confusion. Clearly she's not the sharpest tool in the shed. "What?"

"I," he says slowly, so her puny mind can comprehend, "want your power."

Her eyes widen with sudden, blinding clarity, but it's much too late. Even as she tries to slam the door shut, he sends her flying backwards with a flick of his wrist. She smacks into the wall with a sickening crack and collapses to the floor in a heap.

But, she's not dead yet. He advances, electricity crackling at his fingertips. She tries to scramble to her feet, but with another flick of his hand, he pins her to the wall, and no matter how hard she struggles, she cannot move an inch.

He draws closer, an amused smile on his face. This is sport. This is entertainment. This is _fun_.

"Who _are_ you?" she whispers, petrified.

"I am Sylar," he replies simply.

He traces a line across her forehead with his finger, relishing her piercing screams as the blood seeps out, her power seeping out with it. Finally, the screaming stops and she collapses to the floor, no longer under his power. She's dead, but her screams are still ringing in Gabriel Gray's ears.

He frowns, wondering why he doesn't feel any different. He glances at his hands, turning them over. Surely he should feel… something. He usually does. But this time, there's nothing. Just a strange, lurching sensation. He frowns again, confused.

But then pain sears in his stomach and he doubles over, clutching his abdomen. Retching, he coughs, sending blood spattering across the previously pristine carpet. He can feel something working its way up, something that burns his throat with its jagged edges. Whatever it is, it's not good; Sylar can tell that much.

Gagging, he throws up on the floor, a pile of sickly grey vomit he can still taste in his mouth and nose. It is putrid.

He frowns, peering closer at the lump of sick. There's something shiny there, something that shouldn't be there. Sifting through the disgusting material, he picks it up, promptly dropping it when it pricks his finger. The superficial wound soon heals over, and he tries again, more gingerly this time.

It's a blade. A razor sharp blade. That came from his _stomach_. His _stomach_.

He glances down at the sick, then at the dead girl on the other side of the room.

"Cool," he comments, wiping his mouth and getting to his feet.


End file.
